in feeling, playing upon it as skillfully, as Paganini on his
violin, finding expression for every thought and fancy, writing on the
most serious subjects with the gayety of a harlequin, plucking jests
from the mouth of death, graceful as the waving of willows, dealing in
double meanings--that covered the asp with flowers and flattery, master
of satire and compliment, mingling them often in the same line, always
interested himself, therefore interesting others, handling thoughts,
questions, subjects, as a juggler does balls, keeping them in the air
with perfect ease, dressing old words in new meanings, charming,
grotesque, pathetic, mingling mirth with tears, wit with wisdom, and
sometimes wickedness, logic, and laughter. With a woman's instinct
knowing the sensitive nerves--just where to touch--hating arrogance of
place, the stupidity of the solemn, snatching masks from priest and
king, knowing the springs of action and ambition's ends, perfectly
familiar with the great world, the intimate of kings and their
favorites, sympathizing with the oppressed and imprisoned, with the
unfortunate and poor, hating tyranny, despising superstition, and
loving liberty with all his heart. Such was Voltaire, writing "Edipus"
at seventeen, "Irene" at eighty-three, and crowding between these two
tragedies, the accomplishment of a thousand lives.

Ingersoll's Lecture on Myth and Miracles

Ladies and Gentlemen: What, after all, is the object of life? What is
the highest possible aim? The highest aim is to accomplish the only
good. Happiness is the only good of which man by any possibility can
conceive. The object of life is to increase human joy, and that means
intellectual and physical development. The question, then, is: Shall
we rely upon superstition or upon growth? Is intellectual development
the highway of progress or must we depend on the pit of credulity? Must
we rely on belief or credulity, or upon manly virtues, courageous
investigation, thought, and intellectual development? For thousands of
years men have been talking about religious freedom. I am now
contending for the freedom of religion, not religious freedom--for the
freedom which is the only real religion. Only a few years ago our poor
ancestors tried to account for what they saw. Noticing the running
river, the shining star, or the painted flower, they put a spirit in
the river, a spirit in the star, and another in the flower. Something
makes this